Downfall
by yumi michiyo
Summary: How much suffering can one soul take before it breaks beyond repair? Sango is about to find out. Sango/Miroku. Warning: Rated M for very dark themes, violence, graphic sexual scenes, rape and many more depravities.


**Author's Note:** For **psyco_chick32**, who pulled the oneshot into the light of day.

* * *

She wonders where he is. Late as he usually was, she had never known him to be this late in coming home. Sango busies herself with the dinner to keep her mind off her worries; Kohaku whittles a piece of wood into sawdust. He has never been the same since his redemption from Naraku's side: these days, he keeps to himself and his woodcraft.

The night passes too quickly without Miroku; she misses his comforting warmth beside her. The uneaten dinner went cold and gelatinous in the pot. She is anxious now: before the sun had time to rise into the sky, she packs a few things and sets out in search of him. Kohaku stays behind to guard the house: he makes sure there is a home for Miroku to return to.

Eventually his trail leads to a grand castle set in a plain. Grey towers squatted in the fields, rising out of nowhere; they make her apprehensive.

Sango is ushered in to see the lord of the castle with little ceremony. She has been expecting a proud stiff-backed man, like Kuranosuke had been (she has not seen many lords in her life) but is disappointed: the lord resembled a toad closer than a human. Bulging glassy eyes set into a low forehead; thick, rubbery lips stretched across the lower half of the unimpressive chin, the entire construct perched on top of a thick neck. Fleshy cheeks and a flabby body hidden by lavish robes completed the man.

"Who are you?" rasps the lord; she was surprised to hear it, Sango had been expecting the deep croak of the toad he was in form.

She kept her head bowed submissively even though it burned at her pride. "My lord, my husband is a prisoner of yours awaiting execution."

Sango could almost see the confusion on the piggy face. "Prisoner?" A squat, heavy man stepped forward and whispered into his master's ear.

"The itinerant monk is your husband?"

"Yes, my lord."

A snort. "That monk tried to seduce my daughter. He will die."

A wave of nausea rose in Sango's throat; she tried her best to quell it. It would go badly for Miroku – and herself – if she was to lose her control.

"Please spare his life, lord. He is my husband."

"Better you get another husband. Not much of a monk, not much of a husband either." A ripple of sycophantic laughter passed through the assembled men in the hall; she felt her blood rise.

There was a silence as she marshalled her thoughts broken by the sound of wooden floorboards under a man's weight.

"Lift your head," rasped the lord from a point somewhere above her. Reluctantly, she did so – and looked into the dead marble-like eyes. Instantly she saw a spark flare into life behind the opaque surface. The bile rose again; this time for entirely different reasons.

Thick clammy fingers reached down and flicked her cheek. The skin they touched felt like it had been seared with ice.

"Your husband tried to seduce my daughter; a crime punishable by death," repeated the man. "He will die tomorrow morning, unless..." He let the unfinished sentence hang, weighing upon Sango's neck like a millstone.

"Unless," she said quietly, staring into the bulging eyes, willing herself to turn a blind eye to the naked lust in them.

The lord threw her another long lustful look before turning away; it made her feel unclean. "You may go," he told the assembled courtiers, their scornful mumbles filled her ears, deafening her.

"Stand up." She did as he said; she was no longer herself now. She belonged to him in every way. He minced out of the grand hall with Sango following behind.

They entered a lavish bedroom, no doubt the silent witness to many more victims' sufferings. Sango bit her lip to suppress a scream. She would be strong for him, for her, for Kohaku who was waiting at home.

"Lie down there," he instructed; the chunky finger pointed at the plush futon lying in the centre of the room. Obediently, she went like a bride on her marriage day. The lord bent down, tore her kimono open and gloated at the woman at his mercy.

"Remember you are doing this to save your husband," purred the toad-man in her ear as he ran cold webbed hands up and down her unresisting flesh. "Remember this is the only way." He pressed obtrusive lips to hers; forked thick tongue pushing, demanding entry. Sango screwed her eyes shut even though she knew they would not help; Miroku was fire to this man's ice; the love to his hate; the blessing to his sin. There was no way she could pretend it was her husband with her. "Do not disappoint me," he growled.

The lord grew impatient; Sango's breast bindings were torn away roughly and he gorged himself on her bare breasts, devouring the sight of her. "Magnificent," he said and she recoiled. He took one nipple into his mouth and began to suckle; her hands itched for the hidden knife in the folds of her clothing.

The toad-man relinquished his hold with a faint pop."Take out that knife, my sweet, and I will have your precious husband's head on a platter before you in a matter of minutes." Without pausing to savour the look of horror on her face, he turned his ministrations to the other breast.

She should have known; such a man would not have held on to his position without some degree of foresight. Then again, Sango wondered whether the women before her had tried the same thing. The exposed breast firmed not out of any arousal, but of a deep-seated fear.

Impatient clumsy fingers fumbled with her underkimono and cupped her womanhood; Sango drew a sharp intake of breath. Her pride reawakened, she slapped him full across the face and sent him flying.

"You bitch!" screeched the toad-man; the throbbing red handprint stood out vividly from the sickly white pallor of his face. Striding back, he slapped her once, twice; her head rocked from the force of the blows. Driven by his coward's anger, he seized her by her hair and brought her rapidly swelling face to his.

"You dare to hit me, you filthy whore?" he asked in a sibilant, dangerous voice. "You, who threw herself at me to save her wretched husband's life? You digust me, bitch."

Summoning her courage, she spat into the twisted face and kicked his groin, ignoring the stab of pain from the hold he had on her. The lord emitted an animal howl. Losing all patience, he began kicking her; the foot drove into her vulnerable chest again and again. "You are just damaged goods; look at your marred and marked body." He shuddered away from the cross-shaped scar on her back.

"Bitch," he gasped between blows; Sango was bleeding and barely heard him. "Disgusting animal." Apparently aroused again, he threw her down and tossed off his robe, forcing himself onto her.

Sango was too weak to fight back; her body a mass of pain. All she knew was the wet smack of flesh on flesh, the grunting of the man above her, the pain as he forced his length into her body. Her feeble struggles were ended with a sharp thrust which made her gasp in pain; tears fell unchecked from her swollen eyes.

"You like this, don't you, bitch?" grunted the toad-man against her ear; sweaty paws gripped the futon on either side of her body, trapping her. "You like spreading your legs for a complete stranger." He thrust again; Sango felt something tear inside her body, warm fresh blood staining the futon. She did not care: she was numb.

"Yes, yes, yes!" His groin slammed against her raw clitoris repeatedly. Dully, she noted the thwacks of his wetness pounding her: Sango was silent spectator to the abusing of her body.

Finally he was satisfied; his flaccid penis slid readily out of her. It hardly mattered she had not been wet for him; her blood made it easy enough.

"You fucking bitch!" He drove his fist into her stomach. "Your filthy blood's all over me! Damn you, cunt!" The toad-man continued to beat her, showering her in verbal abuse, venting his fury on her unprotesting body. Sango bore the abuse quietly; she could take anything. She was strong; she would not die from this – and so would Miroku.

When he was spent, he forced her into a sitting position, her face in front of his groin. "You messed me up, so you had better clean up your fucking messes," he leered, pointing at his rapidly growing hard-on. "Go on, bitch." Dulled eyes gazed listlessly at the glowing marbles; Sango took his shaft into her mouth. The man growled in pleasure, pumped himself proudly. "You do it now."

He let her know he had enough by pushing her roughly away. "Not bad, whore," he said, studying his manhood. "You must have had a lot of practice on that monk." Sango sat on the bloodied futon in a trance of sorts, staring into nothing in particular.

Sango was not Sango anymore; he had driven it out of her. She was just a bundle of broken flesh.

"Leave," he said curtly, fastening the belt of his kimono. Her eyes shift, attracted by the motion. He cannot ignore the hollows; he knows he has done something beyond the boundaries of human tolerance.

His movements no longer lazy and languid, he scrawls something on a piece of paper; he thrusts it roughly at her. The drying ink gives off a faint smell of ash and bamboo: it stirs a memory of not very long ago, when Miroku sat at the fire, carefully writing his ofudas. Sango reaches for the paper. Her fingers leave bloody trails.

"Give that to the prison guard, take your husband and never return." The rasp turns into a quiver toward the end. The lord does not stay to see her go; he sweeps out, very much the frog prince. He has washed his hands of her.

Sango slowly rises to her feet; a rustling at the sliding door tenses her – is he back for more? When she goes to investigate, blanket wrapped around her body, she finds a wooden basin of hot water. A sponge bobs up and down, rocked by deceptively calm water. Someone has been here.

She cleans herself the best she can: the slayer tells herself it was just another battle with youkai and she is wounded but victorious. She saved Miroku this time; the next time he will save her and they will go on protecting each other. Just like things haeve always been. Nothing has changed.

Upon further investigation of the room, Sango finds a lovely kimono which she puts on. Surely the lord will not begrudge her the kimono not after he has reduced hers to rags. Such a shame, she says, I loved that old kimono. So many memories in it. She finds it ironic that a thing of beauty cloaks a thing of ugliness.

Like a woman in a trance, the slayer makes her way down to the dank cells. The air is ripe with despair and futility; she feels an instant kinship with the place. The document is given a perfunctory glance and in no time, the guard returns with a haggard prisoner.

"Sango," mumbles Miroku and he staggers into her embrace. His arms stay perfectly still on her; one encircling her shoulders, the other holding her waist. He holds her like he is afraid she will be gone in an instant; tightly, the fingers splayed so as better to touch her. Sango wants to tell him he is already too late but she holds her tongue. She leans into him, inhaling the scent of sweat and filth and misery; he is her absolution.

Fighting the wave of nausea choking her mind, she acts like the Sango he knows.

"I'm sorry," are the next words out of his mouth. She looks past him, into the lecher's mind and feels nothing.

"I forgive you."

He smiles sadly and cups her face; he frowns when she suppresses a tiny cry of pain.

"Your face," Miroku mutters, his eyes as dark as sin, "you've been hurt." The monk draws her into an inn and throws money at the startled innkeeper; when he was sure they were alone, he undresses her. Sango lets him – she would rather he know now than later; she cannot bear the weight of the guilt.

For the second time that day, eyes run up and down Sango's naked form; this time they are filled with horror. "Gods, Sango, what happened?" Miroku falls to his knees before her; he seems to be begging his goddess for mercy at her altar. Sango cannot bring herself to talk; dread goose-pimples her exposed skin.

His hands trace the outlines of fearsome bruises, cuts and various injuries; all fresh. She flinches every time skin touches skin. Without saying anything, Miroku knows her womanhood has been violated as well; incoherent fury shakes his shoulders.

"Who did this to you?" he demands quietly, wrapping her in her kimono and his arms. "Tell me."

She shakes her head – the lord must have beaten her tongue still for all the words she can utter – and shies from his warmth. She cannot allow herself to relish his support; she has fallen far below even though she was convinced she could not fall any further.

Sango watched her body crumble; now she watches her husband fall apart before her eyes. Angry and desperate as he is, Miroku knows better than to press her too much; she could very well break into fragments before his eyes.

"Let's go home," he says quietly, taking her hand in his – she tries her best not to jerk it away. He is a man, after all; all men possess spears that bring pain.

They travel home under the weight of a thousand unspoken words; Sango insists on walking despite Miroku's protests. Her shell cannot be further damaged than what it already is. He walks behind her: his gaze follows the blood trickling down her leg and vanishing into the earth. He weeps for her because she cannot.

Kohaku is quietly whittling at another chunk of wood; a finely carved wood husband and wife stand beside him, watching the flesh husband and wife return with stoic features. The rudimentary third figure he is working on gets hurriedly put to one side.

"You've returned home," he says happily; Sango stretches her face in the ghastly parody of a smile. She has no reason to smile any more, not even for the boy who was taken from her and returned an old man.

"It's good to be home." Miroku ruffles the boy's head affectionately; he admires the wood carvings later as Sango leaves to bathe. She has no idea whether her brother genuinely did not notice her broken body or whether he has lost the ability to distinguish _whole_ from _broken_.

They do not speak of the circumstances that led to Miroku's prolonged absence from their home; Sango plays her part as the devoted wife and loving sister well. The monk still watches her warily from the corners of his eyes as Kohaku happily prattles about his wood carvings. He has a husband, a wife, a little cat and he is working on the final figure; a rough humanoid shape about half the height of the husband.

"That's the same height difference between us," remarks Miroku and he laughs. Lately his laughter has been thin and forced but the boy does not notice. He has forgotten how to laugh.

* * *

Sango's wounds heal physically; mentally, she lets the scattered pieces of her sanity lie where they have fallen. More and more she wanders off to be alone and reappears hours later. Miroku notices; he treats her with endless care and tenderness when she comes back. In return, she puts up with his touch.

They do not share a bed at night. Sango cannot abide the warmth and love from her husband; she punishes herself with the coldest and darkest corners of the hut. Practically every night she wakes up screaming silently; she does not say much these days. He is always awake with her, telling her he loves her in the only way she will accept, by pretending not to. Kohaku never knows; he sleeps the sleep of the dead. The wood carvings bear witness to the nightly sufferings – Sango feels a bond with them. They are one and the same.

As with the scars, the nightmares begin to fade as the days inch along. Sango almost feels like herself again; she tries to laugh. Kohaku reacts accordingly; he grows more attached to the wood carvings, seeing how much his sister admires them. They are carved and recarved countless times a day: the boy painstakingly refines the features, the clothing, the bodies – they are almost never out of his hands. Miroku begins to relax and enjoy the life of a married man. Now and then, he even takes his eyes off Sango.

As time passes, Sango learns what it is like to live again.

A month passes quickly enough; the landscape remains unremarkable. She lets him touch her now; she even begins to enjoy the contact between skin especially when it comes from him. Kohaku keeps to himself but he has a ready smile when they pay him attention. Between his callused fingers and blunted knife, a look of longing emerges on the wood boy's face.

The warmer days bring with them work. Miroku goes out again to earn his family's rice; Sango is more than happy to keep home with Kohaku and his wooden retainers.

"I'll miss you," Miroku murmurs, his words making soft beats against her glossy hair. She nods.  
"Come home soon."

He grins and departs down the dusty road. Sango watches him go until the purple-black robes close in on themselves and he is gone.

"Will you have to fetch Houshi-sama home again?" asks Kohaku from the doorway. She shakes her head and a sound escapes her throat: it is the closest she can come to a laugh. "Not this time."

He is back before long; he brings many things with him. The cart he rides groans under the weight of many foodstuffs, cloth and assorted junk only a man could think necessary for the home.

Miroku spoils her; he unfurls a bolt of gloriously soft silk in fetching hues of red and orange ("Like the sunset," he tells her) as well as combs and hairdressing tools.

"Why did you buy these?" she asks, bemusedly fingering an ivory comb. "I don't know how to use them."

"You should learn," he says with a twinkle in his eye. He hands Kohaku a new whittling knife and a strange tool ("  
I bought this from a Dutchman; he says it's the latest in woodcarving technology from the West,") and graciously receives his thanks.

From the folds of his robe, he draws a dagger; it is a work of art, the blade itself etched with many designs. "I thought you would appreciate this."

"I do." Sango takes the knife from him hilt-first; she sweeps it through the air, fantasizing about imaginary gouts of blood spurting from imaginary throats. "Thank you, husband."

Miroku leans forward, inhales the delicate scent of her hair: his hand trails down her exposed arm. "You're welcome, wife."

"You spoil us," she scolds him softly as Kohaku eagerly begins carving the fenceposts around her garden because he can.

"I know."

"Why?"

Miroku looks directly into her eyes. "Because I love you."

She has no answer for him; they turn their gaze to the damp wind heralding a shower.

* * *

A surprise greets them when they journey back to Kaede's village to visit the aging priestess; a strange object was found near the Bone-Eaters' Well. Yellowed with age and crinkled from last night's rain, Miroku unrolls the scroll and begins to read.

"It's from Kagome-sama," he says eagerly. "A letter from her time she sent through the well."

The letter is long but sparse on real content; Sango shakes her head fondly. Her dearest female friend is still very much the same; her bubbly personality spills over the words and into their world. As far as they can gather, she and Inuyasha are well and happy, very much in love.

Sango is happy for them, living together in their modern world that has no lords.

* * *

When the wind changes, she feels a stirring in her body. It is time, she tells herself. She packs up her slayers' suit, her armour, her arsenal of tricks and traps. Hiraikotsu is rescued from its exile in the shed behind the home: she lovingly polishes the weapon until the dull bone gleams.

Sango puts aside the spoon for the sword; she spends nights training in their backyard. Miroku joins her – Kohaku is made nervous by the long glint of the sword. She feels her broken body begin to knit and heal.

Late at night, she lets Miroku massage the knots of muscle in her limbs; he is always gentle with her, especially around her scars. When he is done, she rewards him with a shy kiss: not the bruising bloody ones she keeps locked away in her mind.

Sango lets Miroku pick up the fragments of the shattered soul and begin to piece them together.

* * *

As the days start to lengthen and heat up, he and she go out together to slay demons. She sees him watching her as she fights: she pays him no heed. The dog days of summer penetrate her icy demeanour and begin to defrost her soul.

"I've missed this," she says as they sit around a flickering fire. He inches closer, fingertips almost touching hers.

"So have I," agrees Miroku. The fingers closest to her – the ones on his now bare right hand – twitch. "It's so quiet now."

Sango misses Kagome; she even misses Inuyasha. The fickle well does not always let them come through. She misses Shippou, on his training to become a master of tricks, and Kirara, who could not be convinced to settle down to the quiet life. The slayer looks up at the night sky, wondering where all her former companions are and whether they are still sharing the same overhead view.

When she turns her head, Miroku is too close. He bends forward, gently presses his lips to hers. Sango banishes the rubbery lips to the back of her mind: her husband's lips are soft and warm. She kisses him back and shyly touches his face.

Miroku's breath quickens; under the palm of her other hand, she feels his heart thump. She feels his warmth fill her from inside out and Sango ignores the coldness in her gut. She loves him and he loves her. This is not forced coupling. She knows he will understand if she pulls away.

His eyes are clouded with desire and a hint of worry when he breaks off for breath. "Sango, if you can't – if you don't want this – "

She stares steadily back; steel lacing her gaze. "I do." She boldly tugs at his robes; he hastens to help her.

The monk undresses her with infinite care; she feels the worship in his touch. "Beautiful," he says and he means it. They lie down, lost in a tangle of fabric and he lets her explore him. Fingers slide down a sweat-soaked chest and torso; he gazes at her through misted eyes at chuckles at her innocence.

"My beautiful, naive Sango." She does not correct him.

Miroku puts her pleasure over his own. His needs are secondary to hers, despite his long abstinence: the prize is well worth the wait. Sango learns things she never thinks a tongue could be capable of, feels the waves pleasure cresting over her body like a tsunami.

When he eventually enters her, she feels nothing but the throb of him and her, together as one. Never has she felt so much from so little.

"I love you," he moans as he moves in and out, in sync with her. Sango clutches his back, holding on for dear life. Though aroused and lusty and wanting him as badly as she does, she cannot help but to see his face slide in and out of focus; she sees the marble-eyes gazing back down. Sango swallows her tears and buries her face in his neck.

When the lovemaking is over, she lets him kiss and hold her as he basks in his afterglow. Large warm hands with their callused fingertips roam unchecked over her naked form: Sango does not deny him his rights as her husband.

Sango hopes the pain will fade with time and practice.

When she wakens from another nightmare – bolt-upright and screaming – Miroku grabs her and presses her body to his as tight as he can. Screams fade into sobs and she sags bonelessly against him. "Another nightmare?"

Sango does not answer; she does not need to. The hand begins to caress her ears the same way she used to caress Kirara's.

"Sango, when will you tell me everything?" he asks in a broken voice. Wetness strikes her cheek; bemusedly, she wipes it away.

"You're crying," she remarks in surprise. He never cries; yet tears continue to roll down Miroku's face and fall on his robes: black spots appear where they land.

The monk cradles her form like an infant: the swirling purple-black colour of his robes and eyes penetrates her shell. "Don't cry." Sango cups his cheek with a hand; her thumb swishes away the dampness. He catches the hand, turns it over in his larger one.

"All I want is to make you happy." Miroku drops a kiss in the delicate palm. "It's killing me, Sango, seeing you suffer and not knowing why. I've bore it long enough; please tell me what hurts."

Her throat constricts. She loves him; how is she supposed to tell him it is that same love which has destroyed her?

She shakes her head and pushes him away; she does it with all the strength of a butterfly so he will not be hurt any worse than he already is.

He is not to be deterred. "It's that lord, isn't it?" Sango freezes. Her gaze drops under the weight of his scrutiny.

"That lord – oh gods, Sango, he – " Miroku cannot bring himself to voice what he already knows: his broad shoulders bow under the horror. "Sango – " The monk does not continue, he lets her name hang in the air between them like a prayer – or a curse.

Shame heats her cheeks. "Now you know." Oddly enough, the secret she has carried around for so long does not leave her back; it has already become a part of her, worming its way into her soul.

Miroku buries his face in trembling hands. "Sango – you did it for me – the lord – " She watches his destruction with impassive eyes: she has already bypassed this stage. A tiny choke of emotion tugs at her eye as she feels for him but mostly she is numb. He falls silent, having lost his ability to form complete sentences.

Then the air leaves her lungs as he crushes her to him in a hug. "I'm so sorry," he murmurs into salty-wet skin. "I'm sorry, Sango."

Sango accepts his apology: what is done is done, and cannot be undone. She reflects on the irony that is her monk's words: they used to be able to get them out of trouble; this time they caused the trouble. The slayer laughs inwardly so she will not startle her husband.

When she wakes the next morning, she is not surprised to find him gone. There is a note left for her in the hollow where his body rested; it is still wet. She does not read it anyway because she knows where he has gone, what he has done. Sango stays put by the silent fire, legs huddled up against her body. She rests her chin on weak knees, both dreading and anticipating his return.

Before the sun sinks beyond the horizon, she hears his footsteps sound on the beaten-dry earth: resolute and firm. Sango feels his arms around her before she sees him.

"Let's go," he says hoarsely, stroking her face with the back of his hand in a loving gesture: she does not miss the spot of dark wetness on the side of the appendage farthest from her. She knows what he has done – what he had to do – and she accepts it.

Miroku is uncharacteristically quiet and subdued for the journey back but she understands: he has turned his back on his beliefs and must accept the consequences of his actions upon his soul. She knows this yet she lets him brood in self-imposed exile.

When they reach their home, Kohaku greets them excitedly; he has completed the final wooden figure. A freckle-faced boy with gangly limbs completes the family. Together, husband and wife watch as he reverently places the figure with the two others in the pride of place of the home. Sango's hand steals into Miroku's and she squeezes.

* * *

Toward the end of summer, when Sango can hide it no longer: she announces the soon-to-be new addition to their family. Miroku kisses her with hooded eyes and a fake smile: Kohaku sets about choosing a fine chunk of wood with which to carve into a child.

They smile and do not mean it; they keep up the facade for both their sakes and Kohaku's.

The young boy asks Sango whether it will be a boy or a girl and she shakes her head, saying it is too soon to tell. He does not understand why tears pour down his sister's face.


End file.
